


Red.

by Dobbys_Sock_7812



Series: Welcome To The New Age [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M, Muggle/Wizard war, Pre-Apocalypse, Wizarding World
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:55:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2010006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dobbys_Sock_7812/pseuds/Dobbys_Sock_7812
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet Red: A metamorphmagus. An experiment. A child of the rebellion.<br/>Now a protector of the International Statute of Secrecy. In a world where a Muggle movement threatens to expose Wizards in society and children are going missing left, right, and centre, deception is the only way forward. They don't even know her name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red.

_In which we reach back a century or so to see how it all began_

**

The dim twilight bathed the shoreline in a dark, unnerving shadow and the stars had yet to awaken, still blanketed by a stretching cloud. Beneath the old lighthouse, a plain of uneven rocks stretched several metres, before disappearing under the calm waters. Though the navy blue ocean continued its steady rhythm of moving backwards and forwards across the pebbles of this deserted beach on the Scottish coastline, all was quiet. And despite the fact that it wasn’t late, it seemed the whole world was asleep. Not a soul could be seen for miles around. 

Time passed, and eventually the tip of the setting sun dipped behind the ocean, steeling the orange and pink swirls from the sky. The clouds remained unforgiving and still refused to let the stars come out to play, and with the absence of moonlight, the world was cast into a blue-black hue.

It was only then that amongst the swirling fog in the distance, a blurry figure began to emerge from behind the lighthouse. A distinguished man, he adorned a simple black suit with tails, accompanied by pointy dress shoes that made the softest crunch on the gravel below his feet. Of course, his look would not be complete without a stiff, black top-hat of considerable height and a pocket-watch in his front pocket with a chain that stretched across half of his breast. The only thing this man lacked was a monocle—it was clear he came from a highly respected background and had a prestigious education to boot. His entire physique leaked knowledge of an enviable quantity. The man took a few tentative steps across the rocks, before seemingly deciding it was safe enough and walking on, his short, brown curls ruffling in the slight breeze. Eventually he came to a slow halt, before crouching down at the waters edge with an easy grace and resting his unshaven face in the palm of his right hand. And he waited.

Before long, the man was roused from his thoughts by the shuffling of feet across the pebbles. He did not bother turning round, and instead continued to stare across the black ocean. The footsteps continued until interrupted by a deep, formal voice.

“Dobson.”

The man called Dobson was the polar opposite to the man on the rocks. His hair was unkempt and hung in tangled waves around his shoulders; and he wore a white shirt of questionable cleanliness that gave off the rather strong smell of body odour. He had an air of being nervous, yet seemed sure of his purpose. Upon recollecting his bearings, the man drew himself upright, cleared his throat and began walking again so as to join his crouching companion, and copied his actions.

“Oakley”

Both men were enveloped in silence once again—long and awkward—during which Dobson appeared to be working himself up to something. Oakley on the other hand, kept a cool exterior, though his anxiety was apparent as he continued to fidget with something in his right trouser pocket. 

“Why are we here?” Oakley’s cool, sharp voice cut through the silence like a knife, causing Dobson to jump.

The latter shuffled from one foot to the other in discomfort, before eventually deciding that comfort was superior to appearance, and free-falling back onto the rocks. He appeared to be contemplating his next words. After several failed attempts, Dobson cleared his throat again and spoke quietly.

“Hitler grows more each powerful each day. This country, and perhaps many others are on the brink of war.” 

“I know of it.” Oakley murmured. “What is your point?” 

“A war will be the perfect cover.” Was the other man’s reply.

A frown adorned Oakley’s face, his steely grey eyes becoming partially hooded by lids; however, when he spoke, his tone carried nothing but weariness.

“A perfect cover for what exactly?”

“My sources tell me that Hitler plans to build concentration camps to eradicate certain..erm.. Characters.” Said Dobson. “You know, Jews and the like.” He added in response to Oakley’s increasing frown.

“So how does that help you?” the latter inquired.

“We can chuck them in there. The Nephilim.”

With this comment, the atmosphere changed instantly. Oakley’s mouth was pressed in a thin line and fury was evident in his demeanour. He began fidgeting with his pocket again. Dobson on the other hand, looked rather pleased with himself, as though he thought the idea was gold dust.

“That’s genocide.” Oakley snapped, ripping his eyes away from the ocean to glare at the other man, who recoiled slightly under the radiating fury. 

“They’re not human. They’re barely even mortal, Angel blood flows in their veins and a power like that does not belong on Earth!” Dobson defended himself with a strong, furious whisper.

“Angel blood?! What nonsense is this?” hissed Oakley

A light flickered on in Dobson’s eyes and his chapped lips spread wide to reveal a victorious, toothy grin. This did little to put his companion at ease, though he seemed oblivious to this and extracted a shabby, folded up wad of paper from his trouser pocket. He then smoothed the paper out onto his lap and began to read aloud what appeared to be a few pages torn unceremoniously from a journal.

September 10th 1935

It appears that whatever gives these beings their powers does not protect them from simple means of torture. It was under such methods that I was able to prove the impossible. My colleagues and I watched in awe as she pulled a twig-like object from her pocket and produced a green light. Though it is with deep regret that I say her words and said green light are the reason my colleagues are buried in a nearby cemetery. If not for my own quick thinking and homemade containment tank, I would be joining their party 6ft under. 

Once upon a time I thought they were a truly remarkable species, my only wish was to study them, but after the murders, talk turned to religion—surely this girl would go to hell? However then it became my belief that perhaps Hell is where she and the others hail from. Consequently, I have spent recent weeks conducting a series of experiments to see if this theory has any credibility. 

“I don’t follow,” said Oakley. “Is this your excuse for possible genocide? Your Father’s botched theory that they—if they even exist—are the devil’s spawn?”

“Ah, but there’s more,” Dobson replied. His grin took on a more sinister appearance as he smoothed out the second page and read out the messy scrawl on the page before him. 

Subject 7: Exp. Round 21.

Hold Crucifix within range- Subject reaches out and kisses it.

Perform Exorcism- No change in Subject other than the minor injuries expected, which healed completely before we could even blink.

Ask Subject to say the Lord’s name- Subject completes task with no issues, even takes on an affectionate tone.

Take Subject to Holy Ground- No change in Subject, no apparent suffering.

Cut my hand- Instead of drinking blood like a cursed creature, Subject walked over, touched the strange twig to my hand, muttered something unintelligible and it healed.

Hand Subject prayer beads- A most peculiar reaction.. The decider. Subject stares at us for a while, before snatching the prayer beads away, taking them into the corner, and praying.

 

Took a blood sample from Subject- Blood not black as expected from a cursed creature. Peculiar reaction from colleagues; some couldn’t even bear to look at it.

November 8th 1935

I have analysed and re-analysed our findings and have eventually come to the conclusion that these… these creatures are not the spawn of the Devil. Her faith and ability to heal means she is capable of good, and the reaction of some of my colleagues to her blood has lead me to believe quite the opposite of what I once thought. Perhaps it is not Devil’s blood intertwined with humans, perhaps it is Angel blood. Upon reading many theology books, I have found that the correct term for this is Nephilim, and they have played a significant part throughout religious history. 

November 21st 1935

The past weeks have been spent trying to make the Nephilim subject talk. She refused to even under rather extensive torture which made me feel weak at the knees to watch; so we tried a different approach. A colleague of mine who had remained behind the scenes, who Subject 7 had never seen before offered to help. He sat in the containment unit with her, pretended to be one of her and befriended her, and she sang like a bird. As time progressed, everything seemed to be going perfectly, what we did not count on, was their friendship to become real. On November 14th in the dead of night, he helped her escape, and was captured in the process. It took all of two days for him to gleefully prove to us that he was also a Nephilim. We took this in our stride and began to conduct more experiments in an attempt to understand their powers. It quickly became apparent that his mind was too strong and too mature; that our experiments are perhaps best directed towards younger minds…

December 1st 1935

My time grows short, I know it and have accepted it. That is why I write to you, the fortunate traveller who may one day come across these documents. My son has gone into hiding and would be foolish to brave this place now. On November 28th, the prisoner (named subject 8) escaped and has killed everyone under employment at the Institute. I know my hiding place can only last so long; either I die by his hand or starve to death in the confinement of the Institute. These documents are the only evidence of the Nephilim couple ever having graced our presence because those under employment at the Institute have been dropping like flies in recent days, and I am under no illusion that they die by natural causes. It would seem he saved me for last so I’d know he was coming. It’s strange really, a fallen angel sounds in my mind to be a creature of such beauty… But powers like that do not belong on Earth among mortals; Angels should stay in heaven where they belong…

Dobson finished the document and his eyes were feverish with anticipation as he gaged Oakley’s reaction. For a while there was no reaction. There was nothing but a contemplative silence where Oakley all but ignored his companion and gazed out to sea again. Several long moments were allowed to pass before he spoke.

“Dobson, don’t you think his work may be a little… I don’t know… Out-dated?” he questioned softly.

“Four years ago… I’d hardly call that out-dated my good man. The few documents I managed to collect before the building collapsed contain some very useable content; and we have my late Father to thank for that.”

Oakley was standing now; he paced across the uneven rocks without so much as a stumble. His brain was working so furiously It was almost visible as he toyed with a few different ideas for his next words. This was a man who made sure every response he gave was premeditated; a quality which is far too rare.

“Perhaps… There is a reason why he is your late Father…” Oakley mused.

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?” Said Dobson through gritted teeth, enraged even more by the fact that Oakley was not fazed in the slightest.

“I think you know what it means.” Replied the man himself.

“My Father was a good man! You think you’re so superior because you’re all prim and proper. Well my Father raised me the right way!” Dobson yelled.

“Clearly,” Oakley said pointedly, gesturing to the man’s attire. “I hear caves are lovely this time of year, though I think I prefer my house”

Dobson appeared slightly put-out as he turned to a black pinprick in the distance—the mouth of the cave that had been his home after his last hiding place was destroyed by Nephilim. 

“Slight complication,” he muttered. “Not the fault of my Father, and you would do well to respect the dead,”

“You misunderstand me. I do not mean any disrespect; I was merely implying that some things are best left well enough alone. What’s that old saying? If it’s broken, don’t fix it,”

Dobson still looked hurt and confused, and despite everything, Oakley felt a twinge of guilt and sympathy for the washed up man before him. 

“Look,” he said, wiping his hand across his sweating brow. “Your Father was a good man Dobson, and no one could possibly deny how wise he was. It enthralled me. It’s unfortunate that his greatest asset was his doom, but they are clearly a people who prefer to be left in peace to hide from society.” 

Dobson looked so deflated in his place on the rocks. Even a man with a heart cast of stone would falter at this pitiful sight. His mud coloured eyes betrayed a lost man who was sick of hiding. Oakley inwardly groaned at his own guilt and arrived at the conclusion that at the very least, he owed his companion the truth before…

He was about to open his mouth when-

“Oakley?”

“Yes,”

“Why do you know my Father? He was already dead when we started working together, so how do you know him?” Dobson’s confusion was long gone and in its place was an accusatory tone.

There was a long silence, and when Oakley did speak, each word was said carefully and deliberately.

“Dobson, let me tell you a story… These so called creatures whom you wish to lock up and study are not Nephilim, they are Wizards and Witches… Sorcerers if you will. They are not human, angel hybrids, it is not in their DNA to fear the Devil and most importantly, they prefer to be left alone to co-exist with the world in harmony. We do not wish any harm to fall upon you Muggles…” Oakley finished calmly, anxiously awaiting Dobson’s next words, though judging by the latter’s reaction, he thought he knew exactly what they were going to be.

Wide-eyed and visibly shaking, Dobson pointed a stubby finger at Oakley, his best and only friend of almost four years. Through the veil of shock, he barely managed to croak out a response.

“W-we?”

No sooner had this word escaped his mouth, than Oakley took a step forward, closing the gap between them. 

“We.”

It took a few seconds for Oakley to brave his guilt and look into his friend’s eyes. It took Dobson just as long to notice the man in front of him had drawn a wand from his right pocket, and was now pointing it directly at his heart. By the time the final words were uttered, no shock or betrayal could be seen on Dobson’s face, only a sad smile as he said his last words.

“Goodbye old friend,”

 

For a few moments, the blue-black hue that blanketed this beach was disturbed by a flash of green. In that single moment, time ended, and Oakley couldn’t ignore the painful, dull thud of his heart as his only friend crumpled at his feet. As a vague attempt to ignore the loss, he backed away from the body rapidly, stumbling along the way. The easy grace this man once possessed was stolen by grief as he hit the lighthouse and slid to the dirty pebbles that made up the shore. As is common in these situations, Oakley’s mind was plagued with regret and ‘what if’s’. And once or twice, he found the same thought crossing his mind. What if he didn’t have to kill Dobson? Could that man have been left alive? And each time he was faced with the same answer. Of course Dobson couldn’t have lived; he knew too much, enough at least to break the Statute of Secrecy. Besides, if Dobson had been allowed to live, who knows how many more innocent people would have ended up in one of those stupid camps? Despite his sudden bout of emotion, Oakley reasoned with himself that Dobson’s death was for the better, but at the very least felt it prudent to give his friend a proper send-off. 

A few waves of his wand and a two and a quarter hour wait for the tide later, the send-off began. 

The oaken boat was rickety and humble and groaned when it was pushed as if tired; a perfect match for the man resting within who was tired of hiding and ultimately tired of life, whether he wished to admit it or not. There were plenty of emotions written across the man’s face, and one such feeling that was unmistakable was relief. Dobson was at peace, but the fight was far from over. He had a legacy. That, Oakley knew. Dobson, although important, was not essential for the movement whose popularity increased alarmingly as the months passed. His death would not change that and there was much that would need to be done.

For him, there was time for grief. For Dobson’s movement, there was time to spread out and to all but insure their longevity.


End file.
